


Straight, No Chaser

by TheMouthKing



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Angst, Drinking, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn Watching, alcohol tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMouthKing/pseuds/TheMouthKing
Summary: That night after Vidcon with the Fireball.
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Comments: 35
Kudos: 72





	Straight, No Chaser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sohox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohox/gifts), [EnthusiasticAudience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnthusiasticAudience/gifts).



> Biggest of thanks to @soho-x and @enthusiasticaudience of tumblr. Without them, this would undoubtedly not exist. They are the greatest cheerleaders a smut monster could ask for. 
> 
> PS. hit up my tumblr if you're curious about the porno that inspired this fic.

It’s Vidcon, and they’d been drinking since they’d gotten back to the hotel room. With a bottle of fireball ordered up, they tucked into the array of sodas in the mini fridge to make fireball and Cokes, but as they got more drunk the scales started to tip in the direction of giving up on the Coke and towards just doing shots. It’s not like them to go this hard when they’re out on the road — to go this hard _ever_. Later, when they’re patching together the gaps of the evening, why they’d started drinking is going to be the last thing they question.

The more they drink the more charged the air in the room feels, like there’s electricity waiting to touch down. Maybe it’s the fireball threatening to bring out the worst in them, or maybe it’s just the culmination of years spent circling the ring, always dodging, never connecting. It wouldn’t take much to bridge the distance between them, to connect them like lightning or a fist to the jaw, but instead they carry on circling like fighters waiting for the count that never comes. 

At least, until something shifts. Until they tip past drunk into reckless, into _headlong_ , into stupid. Into borderline blackout, the plausible deniability of being so damned drunk. It’s after ten when Rhett’s flipping through the TV channels and, on a drunken whim, queues up a porno that’s going to end up charged to the room. That’s Tomorrow Rhett’s problem — the only thing Right Now Rhett is thinking about is the heat rising beneath his skin and his desperation to let it out. He doesn’t even know the name of the movie — who cares? 

Rhett gives the remote a toss and knocks back the last dregs of his drink, setting his glass on the nearby side table; when his hand falls into his lap between parted thighs, he gives himself a none too shy, lazy squeeze. 

Link, who’d been reclined on the single queen bed nearby, phone in hand and forgotten, is watching the whole thing unfold. He’d watched Rhett scroll through the options, watched him finally settle on his selection and click to confirm the purchase. Maybe the only reason he doesn’t interrupt him _before_ he clicks to watch it is the fact that, for one thing, they’re in Rhett’s room and that means the charge is going on Rhett’s bill. And for another thing, Link is really fucking drunk.

He doesn’t intervene till after, and he doesn’t really intervene so much as he gets to his feet — truly an accomplishment in itself — snags the half-finished bottle of fireball from the nightstand and makes his way unsteadily to the sofa where Rhett is and plops down beside him, so close he’d practically landed on Rhett’s left arm. If Rhett was bothered by Link’s proximity, he doesn’t speak up about it.

There’s a silence that passes between them where Rhett looks over at Link and just considers him for a long moment, like he’s asking without asking if Link is really on board with this, or if partway through he’s going to make it weird somehow. If they’re really doing this. Rhett’s not naive enough that he thinks this is something they can do at arm's length. For starters, they’re closer than that already, shoulder to shoulder and the movie’s barely begun. If Link stays, Rhett has a feeling how this is going to go. It’s not that he plans to push, but he can feel that this could be the catalyst, the match that sets this delicate house of cards ablaze. 

Rhett wouldn’t take advantage, but he can’t help but wonder what Link looks like when he comes. He wonders how he touches himself, if they jerk off the same way or if Link has some kind of particular approach. He’s so particular about every other aspect of his life, he’d be shocked if there wasn’t some precise preference he had here, too. It feels strange that there’s something about Link he doesn’t know. That there’s parts of him that are sealed off from Rhett, parts of himself he hasn’t shared with Link either. Maybe sometimes that doesn’t feel so wrong, but right now it feels maddening.

Link just stares back at him and blinks, bottle of fireball held tucked between his thighs as he untwists the cap with one hand. He’s not even bothering with shot glasses anymore, just knocks a swig of it back and offers the bottle to Rhett. They haven’t been too concerned about whether one or the other’s mouth has been on the bottle — sometimes mixing a drink, sometimes pouring a shot, other times drinking right from the bottle. Judging by Link’s lack of reaction, the night spent trading shots and heavy-handed mixed drinks had gone a long way towards frying his taste buds, because it hardly seems like he’s aware of the burn. 

Rhett takes the bottle and drinks after him. Both of them vaguely recall the sentiment of sharing a glass or a spoon being basically the same as kissing someone — _afterwards, you might as well_ — and yet afterwards, they never had. 

The bottle is offered back, but Link shakes his head, and it’s set aside without a thought as their attention drifts to the screen. Link’s hand moves into his own lap in a mirror of Rhett’s pose — slow squeeze, spread thighs, knee bumping into Rhett’s, vying with him to take up space. Neither budge, just push instead, like overlap was an option. 

It’s not long before their dicks are out and in hand. It didn’t matter who’d gone first, which of them had been the call and who the response, because the end result was the same — both of them sitting side by side, shoulders and thighs and knees plastered together, pants open and stroking slowly. 

They’re watching the movie. On the screen, a busty woman with blond hair and long nails is on her knees, moaning around the mouthful of her costar’s cock. Rhett wonders if Link watches porn like this on his own. He wonders if, if he does, if he picks what to watch based on the woman or the man. Wonders what he gravitates towards, what he’d have chosen if he’d had the remote. 

They’re watching the movie but Rhett’s attention is barely on it. He’s distracted, his attention pulled sideways by Link and what he’s doing, couldn’t ignore it if he wanted to with the motion of Link’s arm digging his elbow into his side on every stroke. Curious, they’re stealing glances. The way Rhett strokes is absolutely bewildering to Link, big hands moving slow, fist loose and moving in delicate strokes over that thick cock. 

Link jerks himself faster, harder. Rhett’s thicker but he’s longer and his strokes travel the full real estate of his length, root to tip. Rhett comes off as casual, easy; Link looks determined, focused, intense. How can those delicate touches be doing anything for Rhett aside from being a tease? It’s clear Rhett wants more than those scarce drags, that loose grip, and it’s distracting. 

Link wants to do it for him. Wants to prove something he doesn’t have words for, show Rhett what he’s doing wrong. Because he _is_ doing it wrong. That’s the reason that he wants to get his hands on his body so bad his hand twitches with the desire. The reason his mouth waters when he sees Rhett’s hand dip low, fingers sweep down to cup his balls, tug them free from his boxer briefs, precum seeping from the head at the move. He wants to get his mouth on him, but the enormity of that desire freezes him in place, stops his hand on his own cock until a loud moan from the woman on the screen startles him back into action. 

They’re looking more at each other than they are at the screen, getting distracted by each other, the curl of fingers, the practiced rhythm, and the way the cock in question moves beneath the attention. It’s not a conscious thought that starts this jumping the tracks, but an impulsive one. Later it’s impossible to know who started it and who followed suit, but for the record it was Link — Link who let go of his cock and reached for Rhett’s while Rhett’s left hand moved from where it had lay tucked between their legs and reached for Link’s. 

Now they have to contend with angles, limbs, bodies in the way and it means with some maneuvering, Rhett can get his hand on Link but Link has to twist to grab hold of Rhett. That doesn’t stop them trying, but briefly Rhett’s got a cock in each hand and he’s stroking them together in that maddeningly slow rhythm like coming too soon is a very real possibility and he’s trying to stay well on this side of it. Because it is. 

He’d been afraid he was going to come just from jerking himself off with Link at his side, and now with a hand wrapped around Link’s cock that fear is compounded tenfold. There’s something about this that feels like decades ago, feels like when they would be making out with girls in the same room and making eye contact with each other. Back then, Rhett would have given anything to touch Link during one of those moments, to feel the physicality of his body and his presence pressed up against his side and know, viscerally, that he’s right there.

Rhett’s breath catches in his throat as he tries to cement the experience in his mind, the heat of Link’s cock and the drag of that velvety soft skin against his palm, and the dampness that he sweeps his thumb through on the upstroke. It’s not wholly foreign, not totally unlike touching himself, but at the same time it’s nothing like touching himself. It feels different in every way imaginable, and drunk as he is, Rhett knows this is a moment he needs to hold on to, and so he tries desperately. He’s staring down at his hand in Link’s lap, like that’ll help, like seeing will cement the experience in his mind, make it more real. 

Link’s hand slips down between Rhett’s legs, searching, and the gasp that escapes the taller man as he tries to spread his legs and make room betrays more than either of them have words for. Link’s eyes flick up and catch Rhett’s gaze and holds it just a measure too long, long enough that there’s no ignoring what’s happening. There’s no way to pretend this was an accident, that their hands slipped, that the agonizingly slow swirl of Rhett’s hand on Link’s cock was a mistake. 

But it’s also like a dam breaking and the first touch paves the way for the next, makes it somehow okay. Link’s still fumbling, looking for a place to touch and distracted by the reality of Rhett’s big hand curled so easily around his dick, when his hand finally skims Rhett’s. It’s awkward with the angle of it and somehow moreso when their hands brush, like somehow touching hands is what makes this too intimate, makes it taboo, not the fact that Link’s curling his hand around Rhett’s dick. 

It’s intense. Link’s intense in everything he does, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that when he finally gets a hand on him he’s stroking like he’s on a mission. Rhett’s still got a hand on himself, at the base, fingers curled and keeping Link from being able to make a full sweep, and maybe occasionally bringing himself back from the edge. It’s not just the pace Link is trying to set that threatens to undo him, but the feel of Link’s hand on him, smaller than his own but strong and familiar. Maybe someone outside the two of them would be surprised, would think that Rhett’s competitive side would be expressed in a single minded rush for the finish line, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Rhett’s entirely the opposite, and he’s carrying on the same slow pace he had for himself with Link now like he’s trying to send a message, trying to correct Link’s _too fast_ with his own easy and methodical pace, like he’s trying to teach him by demonstration. Like he’s almost saying: _no, do it like this._

Unsurprisingly, Link doesn’t catch on at all, instead feels as though Rhett’s trying to torture him. _Fuck_ , it’s so much slower than he likes it but it feels so agonizingly good, and his thighs twitch when that broad thumb completes a circuit over the head of his cock, slow and deliberate, and all at once he’s overwhelmed with the idea of _more._ Link almost kisses him — and Rhett would probably like it if he did, judging by the look on his face and the way his gaze drops down to his mouth, no longer meeting his eyes. 

It’d be easy — alarmingly easy to lean in the short distance between their lips, and he’s filled suddenly with that same wild feeling he sometimes gets when he’s hiking and makes it to a height, to a ledge, the thought that _it would be so easy to jump._ The call of the void, this sudden, inexplicable urge to leap that has nothing to do with wanting to die. The science behind it suggests it’s the opposite, a survival mechanism, that the brain sends out a warning signal and the body responds so fast, stepping back from the edge, that one’s left to wonder where the impulse came from in the first place, and to assume there must have been a desire to jump that set it off. 

Maybe it’s the same thing here. Maybe it’s less a desire to feel Rhett’s mouth on his mouth than it is his brain filling in the blanks, interpreting the years of self-preservation and stepping back from the edge as desire to fall. Or at least that’s what he tells himself to make peace with that constant craving, letting himself off the hook with some loophole of brain chemistry that mimicked wanting. 

Whatever instinct has kept them a step back from the edge all these years is numbed now, dulled under the haze of cheap whiskey, but the call Link answers first isn’t Rhett’s impossibly soft looking mouth — no, he’d like that too much — it’s his cock. He’s got to move to really get his hands on it, and when he turns to face Rhett on the sofa, displacing Rhett’s hand on his cock as he moves, he’s overcome with how easy it’d be to get his mouth on him, and he lets the impulse pull him down. It’s easier than he thought it’d be, of course he’s not doing much thinking now, brain buzzing with how his body feels, hazy and distant and slow enough that it doesn’t feel quite like his own. But still, he can’t help but be struck by how easy it is to finally yield to that constant call, to wrap his mouth around the head of Rhett’s cock and replace Rhett’s big hand with his own like he means to finally show him how it’s done. 

Reality is, that couldn’t be further than the truth. In actuality, Link just wants a taste, pure and simple. Wants to experience this under the permission of being _so fucking drunk_ , to be able to blame the whiskey or even pretend he didn’t remember in the morning. He wanted to know what it was like after years of wondering but having the good sense not to jump. 

He’s startled by the sound Rhett makes there — a throaty, low moan that jolts through him and goes straight to his cock, does more for him than the loud performance of the woman on the screen. Rhett’s hand finds Link’s cock again somehow, heedless of the awkward angle and the fact that Link’s folded himself down into Rhett’s lap, and he’s stroking those maddeningly delicate strokes. There’s no reason a man with hands that large should be that _gentle_ and it’s pissing Link off. Or, well, it’s just getting to him — getting him worked up, burning the fire in him brighter and hotter and not taking him beyond there. Link wants more. 

He wants more, so he gives more. Wraps his fist tight around the base of Rhett’s thick cock and sinks down on the rest, feels the head drag against the roof of his mouth. Hears Rhett’s breath catch and feels his free hand in his hair, for a second pushing him down but then just resting there. Then, taking his glasses off for him clumsily and setting them aside and the added blur that gives to Link’s world takes another measure of his hesitation away and he sinks down further, takes in more, feels the fat head of of Rhett’s cock nudge the back of his throat — too much, way too much too soon. But, God, _the sound Rhett makes._

Link doesn’t know why he pulls back so suddenly, but he does. Maybe he scared himself by jumping into this the way he had and with how much he’d liked it, from the satiny slick drag of the head against his lips to the grip of Rhett’s hand in his hair when Link found something he liked. It was good, but even drunk as he is, it was a _lot_ , and that broken sound Rhett made had jolted them apart. 

Now he’s sitting side by side with Rhett again, and their hands are back where they should be, on their respective dicks like nothing untoward had just happened. But something _had_ and they both know it. Their eyes are on the screen, but they’re not looking at the woman getting railed by some nondescript guy with an obscenely large dick — their eyes are unfocused, unseeing. They’re existing in the periphery, straining to drink each other in where the edges of their worlds blur out and meet, trying to catch a glimpse of each other without really looking. Link is sans specs, lips shining, breathless, and Rhett’s ruddy from drink or desire and he’s shimmying out of his jeans and boxer briefs entirely, a fully open invitation for more. 

It’s a game of chicken, neither of them looking and both of them wanting to — and both of them aware of the risk of stealing a glance, that the second they do, this thing between them will ignite. It’s a sober moment between them — impossible, given how much they’ve had to drink — and yet here they are sitting in almost clarity. _Almost_ because they’re still sitting there practically atop each other in varying states of undress, dicks in hands — but regardless it doesn’t last long. 

Again, later they won’t remember who started it — who dared to look first and who was drawn in by it — but, for the record, it was Rhett. Rhett looks because Link stops jerking off, instead moves to shimmy out of his jeans and briefs like Rhett had, and Rhett’s taking advantage of how distracted he is in that moment and lets himself look. He’s still looking when Link’s got his pants to his knees and leans back to kick them off, hand falling heavy in his lap and curling tight around his cock again, and catches Rhett staring at him. At _him_ not his cock, and whatever this is between them finally breaks under the open scrutiny. 

Link kisses him like a collision without thinking twice, without wondering if Rhett wants to at all, let alone after his mouth has been where it has. But Rhett meets him head on like he’s been waiting for it, like _this_ is the thing he needs more than air, porno be damned. Rhett _wants_. He can taste the fireball on Link’s mouth, cinnamon sweet, but he can taste himself too and there’s nothing about that he should find hot, but _oh,_ he does, and it keeps him licking into Link’s mouth for more. 

Link’s aware suddenly of Rhett’s hand on his thigh, squeezing, kneading, fingers slipping down, rubbing at his inner thigh like he’s looking for a way in, or like he’s urging Link closer, showing by example what he wants, what he needs. If he is, Link doesn’t have the brainpower to catch on, but still he reaches over — switches hands, left hand on his cock, right hand on Rhett — and mirrors what he’s doing, rubs along his thigh like he’s asking permission, and Rhett gives it too fast, too eager. 

Rhett’s hips squirm and when he shifts his legs he almost drapes a thigh over Link’s, and the thought that pops into Link’s mind is a wild one — that he’s offering himself up. In that moment Link finds himself unwittingly wondering what Rhett had before; wondering what it is that’s going through his head when he watches a movie like this. But then, they’re not so much watching it as they are using it as plausible deniability, something to look to when they need a breather, when stealing sidelong glances becomes too dangerous. They should be looking now because if this isn’t dangerous, nothing is. 

When they part to breathe, whatever was there in Link’s brain still capable of throwing on the brakes is gone, vanished, and without Rhett’s mouth on his — which had been nowhere near enough but just barely enough to stay him — he moves. Turning, he faces Rhett, bare legs tucked beneath his body as he kneels over him and… stalls out. 

He just sits there, hovering and freezes because suddenly he can feel the weight of this — the weight of Rhett’s eyes on him, the slow caress of a big hand up the back of his thigh, curled around his body, and Link is helpless to do anything but watch him. Rhett’s sitting there beneath him, one hand on his cock moving slowly, and he’s staring up at him with such an open, vulnerable expression on his face that Link can hardly stand it. If he was sober, it’d send him running, but drunk he somehow has the nerves to face it. To drink it in. 

Rhett’s gaze drops from Link’s face, down his chest, to his cock and it feels like a long time where it’s just that. Link feels Rhett’s fingertips graze his ass and it starts to break the spell — he sways a little, startled, hand moves to grip his cock and stroke, still kneeling over Rhett and now jerking himself off — and he shivers as he feels that big hand at his back tugging his t-shirt up, feels the soft cotton of it inching up his sides. _Fuck._ Link switches hands, left hand on his dick, right hand swung out for balance on the back of the sofa and then he thinks better of it, changes gears, settling it on Rhett’s bare shoulder. When had he lost his shirt? Link has no idea, just knows that somehow he’s aware that Rhett’s naked with no recollection of him getting there.

Rhett leans in slow like he’s waiting to be stopped, but that doesn’t happen. Softly, his lips press to the head of Link’s cock, gentle and reverent — and Link’s hand slows as Rhett connects. They’re all wrapped up in each other, what little focus they have left trained on the other, Rhett taken with the taste of Link as he ventures out with his tongue, takes him in further and softly sucks. Link gasps with the heat of Rhett’s mouth and the gentleness, the surprising skill like somehow, _impossibly_ he knew what he was doing. Link’s hand grips Rhett’s shoulder tighter because he needs an anchor, and Rhett’s hand on Link’s ass pulls him close. Rhett would gladly suck him off like that — but Link’s way too close and far too keyed up to take the gentle, thorough, agonizing attention Rhett would lavish on him. 

Already Link feels himself starting to get twisted up into knots, feels a sob gathering at the back of his throat, one that wants to let out the pure sensation taking him over. But he can’t — fuck, he _can’t_ — even as drunk as this there’s somehow last-ditch brakes, a failsafe that keeps him from splitting himself open and letting it all come pouring out. There’s no controlling this but he needs it harder, deliberate, needs it taken from him in rough pulls and not teased from him slow and sweet over Rhett’s tongue — so he pulls back and makes his intention clear, hand travelling the full length of his hard cock, shining with his precum and Rhett’s saliva. Now it’s a race to the finish, one that Link’s going to win because Rhett’s still trying to hold off, like he’s actively working _not_ to come. 

Rhett falls back against the sofa and stares up at him as their hands fly. And Link looks, captured by Rhett’s open expression, the eagerness of his upturned face, lips parted and wet and inviting. If Link kissed him now, he could taste himself in Rhett's mouth, their flavors mingling over their tongues, hopefully not yet lost beneath the burn of the alcohol. Link wants to chase the taste of him beneath it all, beneath the day that’s dug in its hooks and the alcohol and whatever else has mixed itself in with that flavor underneath that was _Rhett_ and learn his edges. He knows him in every other way imaginable — why not this way, too?

But he doesn’t, not yet. He’s lost in the moment, in trying to stay upright despite the unsteady sway of his body, in the way his hand feels on his cock and how it feels to have an audience close enough to lean in and join. In the way Rhett’s hips squirm as he watches, and in that moment Link’s convinced he’s imagining this differently — imagining it’s not Link stalking his pleasure over Rhett’s chest but _in him_ , fucking him, pushing those long legs spread wide. _Fuck_ , but that does it, that’s enough — more than — and Link comes in two strokes, three, shooting over Rhett’s chest in messy ropes while Rhett watches, breathless and with eyes wide, teases himself and squirms.

Practically as soon as he’s done Rhett leans in, tongue flicking over the head so automatically and without hesitation that he had to have been waiting for this moment, this last chance to steal a taste. It’s different than before, slicker, and Rhett wishes Link had let him bring him off in his mouth, that he’d been given the chance to have swallowed. He lets go of his own cock then in favor of the next best thing, of swiping through the mess on his belly and chest, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking it off. Not for the first time tonight, Link freezes, rooted to the spot because of something Rhett had done, some line crossed between them, and little does he realize he’s struck suddenly by a matching wish — that he’d let Rhett finish him off. That he’d dared to fly that close to the sun, risked Rhett taking him apart with his mouth and uncovering something he wanted to keep buried; it suddenly seemed like it would have been worth the cost, now that he’s staring down at Rhett’s mouth glistening with the last traces of his cum. 

He’s seized with the need to bring Rhett off. Maybe he’s got something to prove, to Rhett or to himself, or maybe he just wants the flip of what he hadn’t let himself have. Or maybe he’s just drunk and impulsive, and still horny even though he’d just cum, eager to unravel Rhett by the very threads that hold him together as payback for nearly pulling something real out of him. He doesn’t have far to move when he bends down — left hand planted between Rhett’s spread thighs, right braced against the back of the sofa — for his mouth to find Rhett’s cock. 

_There’s that sound again_ , not as intense, not as loud as last time, but it’s rising in the larger man like a tide and Link needs it. God, Rhett’s _still_ moving his hand slowly, almost delicately over his cock like he’s chasing some specific sensation, like he’s _curating an experience_ and simultaneously feeding his cock to Link. Rhett’s slow hedonism is enough to drive Link mad — who on earth thought he’d be like this? — and he wants to take it all away. He wants to strip everything away and lay him bare and raw and leave him gasping, shaking, the memory of Link’s mouth burned into his skin.

He’s off to a good start if Rhett’s response is anything to go by. The way he’s positioned he can’t see him, and that’s something he’s going to live to regret; the fact that he won’t have the full picture of taking Rhett apart by inches to replay in his mind’s eye. By rights, he should be on his knees, should be between Rhett’s long legs so he can look up the length of his body and watch him lose control. Like this he can see it but from too close, and without glasses the edges are blurred out and unfocused. 

Link feels like he notices more this time than the first time he’d impulsively leaned down to take Rhett in his mouth. Maybe it’s because the initial wild thrill of _did I really just do this?_ is gone and what’s left behind are the details, the taste of his skin and the steady stream of precum leaking from the head, the occasional brush of Rhett’s knuckles against his lips as he changes up strokes. Whatever it is Rhett’s doing — focusing varying degrees of pressure and attention over one particular area or the other — Link is throwing all of his inexperience and enthusiasm at it, bolstered by drunk confidence and lack of filter. He should have thrown on the brakes ten minutes ago. 

_He should have done a lot of things to avoid winding up like this_ , but he hadn’t, couldn’t, because this thing between them had grown bigger than the fear that for years had kept them apart. Somehow, now, it feels like everything in his life had set him on a path that lead here, that he’d hurtled through every experience by Rhett’s side with the singular goal of ending up sucking him off in a dark hotel room while they both ignore the too-loud straight Pay Per View porn on the tv in front of them. Like somehow this was inevitable, that if it hadn’t happened tonight it’d happen next time, the next hotel in the next city — like the tours, the shows, the talk show spots were openings for _this_ but they kept chickening out until tonight.

Rhett’s breath hitches and it feels like the dam starting to break, feels like a step towards victory. The problem is, the longer this goes on — Link bobbing down on Rhett’s cock like he knows what he’s doing when he doesn’t, making up for his lack of experience in sheer enthusiasm — Link’s less driven by the urge to win, to hold something over Rhett’s head at the end of this, and just wants to make him feel good; wants to get lost in this. Link’s hand moves from the sofa cushion between Rhett’s legs and rubs up one of his thighs, hand curled around him there, fingertips tracing the soft skin of his inner thigh. He’s rewarded with another hitch, a flinch, that thigh jumping beneath his hand, and Link feels powerful. He’s drunk, not just on alcohol but on that power, the realization that he could affect Rhett like that. That he can earn those helpless reactions with just the touch of his hands, the sweep of his tongue. 

Link nudges Rhett’s balls with the backs of his fingers, his knuckles, and feels them tighten from the scant touch — the brush of a thumb and he can feel the telltale texture of that skin beneath the soft, trim hair, and Link knows that he’s getting close. He can’t help himself, he moans around Rhett’s cock and leans down to take more until his lips meet Rhett’s curled fingers on an upstroke. That’s when Link feels Rhett shake like he’d been hit with a jolt of energy, body trembling under Link’s mouth and hand, and the sound he makes is hard, strangled, barely restrained. _He wants more of that._

Link feels Rhett’s free hand sweep up over his thigh and ass to his back, pushing his t-shirt up and tracing the curve of his spine and now it’s Link’s turn to shiver — _not fair_ — and he issues his complaint in a muffled whimper. Rhett’s hand curls into a fist in the hem of his t-shirt somewhere around mid-back like he needs it to steady himself. Link doesn’t want him steady, he wants him falling off the edge, the last threads of control frayed and breaking. 

Link’s toying with his balls, playing with them slowly and skillfully, using what he knows of the way he likes to be touched to guide his hand. And it’s working, he can feel the way Rhett twists and shifts beneath him in response, like it’s all more than he can bear. Link’s too far gone for good sense, so when the wild thought pops into his head that he needs to bury his face in Rhett’s scent — needs to tease Rhett’s balls with more than his fingertips — he acts before he can think better of it. Pulling off of Rhett’s cock with a soft pop, he curls his hand around where his mouth has just been — and yes, the fact that Rhett's still got his hand tight around the base means their fingers brush — and he leans down to mouth his way down whatever of Rhett’s cock wasn’t wrapped up in their combined hands, to nuzzle Rhett's balls with his nose and mouth. There hasn’t been a single word uttered between them since Rhett clicked play on the porno, but suddenly, _here_ , Link almost thinks he hears Rhett breathe a single word: 

_“Fuck…”_

Link is drunk enough that the thought enters his mind that he could stay here a long time tasting him and drinking in the scent of his body, and it doesn’t cause him to jump away. Instead it prickles under his skin like the first hint of renewed arousal and he lingers closer, inhaling the warm, musky scent of him. He’s never consciously made the connection but he’s always known on some level that the smell of him was a comfort, was familiar, something he associated with a lot of things he hasn’t faced yet.

Here, he’s basking in it greedily, carelessly, and he’d _stay_ , except Rhett’s close to coming; Link can feel it in the way his thigh jumps beneath his bare palm, in the motion of Rhett’s big hand nudging his, urging him _faster, more, now._ Rhett’s close and Link wants him to finish in his mouth because he wants to experience that, too, wants everything he has to offer, to take him inside his body the only way he thinks he can. 

So he moves — but not before an exhale over all that sensitive skin sends a new thrill chasing down his spine to feel Rhett react, near-squirming, cock twitching beneath their hands, dangerously close to breaking the silence between them again. He didn’t know until just then how badly he needed to hear Rhett, for this thing between them to find its voice. He keeps chasing that goal when his mouth replaces his hand, when he’s sinking down. 

That’s when _almost_. Rhett almost breaks the silence again, but it’s just a desperate gasp for air that shudders into a moan, hard won like it had been wrung out of him. Rhett almost bucks his hips off the sofa into Link’s hot mouth, _almost_ grabs a fist full of Link’s hair to pull him down — but instead he arches his back, twists, overflowing with this kinetic energy, the need to move because all this sensation can’t exist within the confines of his body. Instead he pets through Link’s hair, hand shaking like he’s coming apart at the seams. 

Link hadn’t even really known what all he was after till out of nowhere he’s seized with the need to hear Rhett gasp his name as he comes, to know what it’d sound like in a moment like this, but it doesn’t happen. Rhett’s orgasm hits him in gasping silence like the sensation took something from him, like there was a cost to the pleasure wrung from his body. Link isn’t ready for it, no matter how badly he wants to be, gives it his all — but he sputters as the first shot hits him in the back of his throat and struggles to recover, to swallow it down. 

He’s so focused on the details he’s barely aware of how red he is, the mottled, splotchy color of his cheeks carrying down his neck and chest — due to some combination of drink and what he’s doing, bringing him through the last tremors of sensation, and the fact that he can feel Rhett’s eyes glued to him. He’s so aware of how Rhett feels in his mouth, the way that thick length had throbbed against his tongue, and the taste of him.

On the heels of so much fireball he can’t help but feel like the experience is compromised, the stale cinnamon still too much on his tongue. He wishes it weren’t, wishes this were something pure, and that he were sober — that he was able to commit this perfectly to memory, fearing that by the time morning comes this is going to start to fade at the edges and he’ll be left with nothing but a hangover and the aftertaste of Rhett on his tongue. 

Link pulls back to breathe once he feels Rhett slump back against the sofa and blinks as he gasps for air, aware of the single line of saliva drawn thin between his mouth and the head of his cock, that and their hands still loosely curled around it the last points of connection. Link licks his lips belatedly, like he doesn’t want this to end — he doesn’t want to break this last line between them — but it has to. 

When Link finally moves to sit back against the sofa, still not far enough from Rhett that they can sit without some near-overlap of shoulder or thigh, the tv is blank and illuminated in dim, forgotten blue. The movie’s long been over, not that either of them had noticed. They sit staring at that dark screen in silence long enough their gazes want to drift back, but don’t. Instead they watch each other from edges, the periphery, still so ungodly close and yet nowhere near close enough.

This hadn’t been something Link had let himself really consider before, something he’d have guessed he’d like. Figured somewhere between the taste and the texture he wouldn’t like it, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. He’d loved it, and he’s way too drunk to piece together all the reasons why. But, for the record, it’s less about the details and more about Rhett.

When the butt of the uncapped bottle of Fireball bumps the back of his hand, Link startles and finally looks over at Rhett. The invitation is clear. He can tell Rhett had knocked a swig back first before he’d offered it, and that realization twists in him like a knife — he can’t help but think that Rhett’s trying to burn the taste of him from his mouth with cheap liquor. 

Link follows him everywhere, always had, but he can’t follow him here. Giving the bottle an answering rap with his knuckles, he shakes his head no. This was an experience he’d needed to have straight, no chaser.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for liking, commenting, and subscribing! Be kind, rewind!


End file.
